


wild ride

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Army Doctor John Watson, Captain John Watson, Catchin' feels, Coming Untouched, Explicit Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Smut, sex on a desk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24119371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: An unexpected sequel toranger panties
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 76
Kudos: 363





	wild ride

The sun rising at their backs, the newly intimately-acquainted men make their way to Baker Street. With John pushing Sherlock up against the nearest convenient surface to plunder his mouth or grind an already-hardening cock against Sherlock’s hip, the going is slow. By the time the black door comes into view, Sherlock’s lips are red and swollen, marked by John’s teeth, bites rising on his neck and shoulders. 

As they reach the flat, the door opens. To his dismay, Sherlock’s ‘watch sexy soldier man’s junk bounce around’ entourage emerges. Lestrade is leading, laughing with Donovan and Molly, and is the first to freeze in his steps at the sight of Sherlock and the previously only leered-at soldier. 

“What in the—” the DI begins before Anderson’s wild, stunned shout cuts him off.

“The freak _pulled!”_

Donovan’s eyes go wide. Staring between John and Sherlock, her mouth drops open. _“How?”_

Pushing past a teary-eyed Molly who seems caught between glaring at/ogling John and aiming a quivering lip at Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson claps her hands with delight. “Oh, Sherlock,” she breathes, fingers fluttering first over him then John without actually touching either of them. “How lovely!” Her face turns solemn as she peers at John. “You are an even better sight up close, young man.” 

John’s eyebrows rise. Despite the faint colour in his tanned face, he offers a rakish grin that has Sherlock, predictably, drowning in his own saliva at the sight. “Thank you, ma’am,” John replies formally. Mrs. Hudson, to Sherlock’s utter shock, giggles and swats at John’s shoulder. 

“Oh, you make me feel like a blushing school girl again, Mister…?”

John holds out a hand that she takes. “Captain John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.” 

Everyone oohs and aahs over John’s title, bombarding him with questions that he answers with ease, laid-back and relaxed. Next to him, still working to control the output of his salivary glands, Sherlock furrows his brows at Lestrade, who is looking him over with narrowed eyes.

“What are you doing in London?” Molly’s question breaks through their staring contest. Sherlock's head whips toward John as the soldier replies.

“I’m on leave. Head back at the end of the week.” 

Sherlock’s back stiffens while something farther south turns even softer with this new information, already subdued by the interruption.

“Where is ‘back'?” Molly asks. 

Sherlock wishes she would shut up, but John just offers a polite smile. “Afghanistan," he replies. "Maybe Kandahar, probably Helmand.” 

“Oh,” says Molly. She looks thoughtful. “For how long?”

“Six months.” 

Lestrade’s eyes are hard on Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock stares at the ground, wishing everyone who isn't John would magically disappear. Catching on, Lestrade clears his throat. “All right, folks. Let’s move on. Don’t want to be late for our, er…” his eyes dart to John and his face flushes. “...breakfast reservations.”

“But we don’t have—” Anderson begins, nasally voice setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge. 

_“Sure_ we do,” Lestrade chirps, dragging him off with an arm around his neck. “Nice to meet you, Captain Watson!” he calls, herding the group away. As John waves, the DI raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, a silent _you owe me one_ that Sherlock nods once in response to. 

Alone on the street with John, Sherlock drags his eyes over the soldier’s shirtless form and sighs. John cocks his head, his smile a slow, fiery thing that sucks Sherlock’s breath away. “So,” he says, speaking low, his tone a rumbling purr. “You going to invite me in?” One brow rises smugly as John drifts closer, cupping the slight swell of Sherlock’s left hip with a steady hand. “Or did you want to join your friends for their breakfast reservation?”

Sherlock catches his bottom lip between his teeth on a breathy exhale, warmth flooding through his body from the origin point of John’s hand on him. “That depends,” he murmurs, feigning far more bravado than he feels.

John’s pale eyebrow arches higher. “On?”

Sucking in a shaky gasp of air, Sherlock presses close. To his not-so-secret relief, his favourite part of John’s anatomy presses back. “Whether or not you’re on the menu.” 

The hand on his hip twitches, nails digging into wool and skin beneath. “You better open that fucking door,” John growls, hot and humid beside his ear before teeth tug hard at the lobe. Groaning, eyes threatening to roll up into his head, Sherlock scrambles to retrieve his keys. His hands shake so hard, he barely manages to get the lock open. When he finally does, he nearly tumbles inside, tripping over the threshold in his haste. 

John catches him around the waist, strong hands gripping and hauling Sherlock up and around, spinning to slam his back to the door after the soldier kicks it shut. His spine hits the old wood with a loud bang. The force pushes the air from his lungs, making Sherlock gasp and wheeze in shock until John’s mouth is on his, kissing like a man unhinged. Like something turned feral and wild, sucking the meagre oxygen from Sherlock’s body until he feels dizzy, melting between John’s hard body and the peeling door. 

His vision starts to turn black at the edges with a lack of air before John finally breaks away, only far enough to tilt their foreheads together. His stunning blue eyes slide shut, pale lashes brushing Sherlock’s skin, a heavy, panting groan rumbling deep in the soldier’s throat. “Is your name,” he pants, pausing to breathe for a second, “Sherlock?” His eyes flutter open. “The older lady called you that.”

Sherlock nods, rolling their foreheads together with the movement. “Yes.” He clears his throat, swallowing around a suddenly dry mouth. “Sherlock Holmes.” 

John’s lips twitch back, flashing his blinding smile before he is licking into Sherlock’s mouth and moaning against his lips, “ _Pleasure_ to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.” His teeth tug at Sherlock’s bottom lip, tongue flicking over the soft flesh inside before leaning away to lick up Sherlock’s jaw and suck on the skin beneath his ear. “I would _very_ much like to fuck you through a mattress if you’re willing to oblige a soldier’s leave wish, Mister Holmes.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, _Captain,_ ” Sherlock breathes, tilting his hips forward to rut his undeniable willingness against John’s stomach. “Is that an order? Because it certainly didn’t sound like—” The words die in his throat, cutting off in a desperate gasp. John grabs him around the waist and tosses him over his shoulder as if Sherlock weighs no more than a sack of flour. Half draped over John’s bare back, Sherlock swoons with the sudden rush of blood to his head before it heads south for the foreseeable future. 

“Where’s the bedroom?” John barks, “Is it upstairs? Tell me it’s upstairs.” 

“Up...upstairs,” Sherlock confirms. A hand grips his arse hard enough to make him shout, and he feels grateful that Mrs. Hudson is out. Though at this point, he wouldn’t have cared if she was home because John is climbing the stairs two at a time, Sherlock hanging over his shoulder and breathless with the soldier's display of strength.

The doors to the upstairs flat are unlocked, Sherlock guiding John through to the cluttered kitchen. “Down the hall,” he gasps, and John turns a hard right angle, marching toward the door at the end. Pushing inside, he deposits Sherlock in an ungainly heap on the bed. To Sherlock’s relief, the sheets are clean and tucked into place, and he sends a silent _thank you_ to Mrs. Hudson. 

Immediately after his back hits the mattress, John follows him down, straddling his hips and bending to rut against him. His thighs are statuesque, rock hard and sturdy on either side of Sherlock. Running his hands up the warm skin and taut muscle, he works his fingers under the shorts, tracing along the soft v of flesh between John’s legs. His fingertips brush coarse hair, then something harder and silky to the touch, drawing a stuttering breath and moan from John above him. “Oh, yes,” John pants, working his teeth against the skin covering the join between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “Touch me, oh, yeah, yes, _touch me_.” 

With the taste of it still in his mouth, Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s cock and tugs, the soldier arching and writhing against him at the sensation. John’s mouth crushes hard onto his. Tongue pushing between Sherlock's lips, he drops a knee between Sherlock’s legs, rutting against his thigh to the pace of Sherlock’s sloppy pulls.

“I want you to ride me. _Please._ ” The words are slurred, panted into his mouth between hot, wet kisses, John biting and sucking at his lips until Sherlock can feel his pulse in the swelling flesh. 

Curving his back to thrust against John’s hand as his palm cups him through his trousers, Sherlock whines, “I thought you said you were going to fuck me through the mattress.” 

John growls, releasing his mouth to drag his teeth hard over the rough line of Sherlock’s throat. “Later. After. I’ve changed my mind.” He nips, worrying at the flesh when Sherlock yelps. “I want you to ride me. _Christ,_ how I want you to.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirk, nails painting stark, red lines over John’s muscled back and shoulders. “Like a pony?” he asks, recalling the lyrics from the park. John’s head pops up, pupils blown wide, lips parted with his tongue peeking out with his loud exhale. 

“Oh, god, yes.” John surges back, pulling at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. Without bothering to undo the placket, he works them off his hips, scraping the skin and nearly ripping the expensive fabric. Sherlock doesn’t care. He would sacrifice every article of clothing for the man now bending to strip away Sherlock’s tight black pants with his teeth, growling and wild-eyed with lust. 

With a twist of his head, John opens his mouth and lets the underwear fly off into a corner before scrambling down Sherlock’s body and taking his quivering cock between his lips without warning. The suddenness of the tight, wet heat around his erection makes Sherlock’s hips buck. The head of his cock brushes John’s soft palate, making Sherlock keen loudly, head falling back to the sheets in a cloud of dark hair. 

John hollows his cheeks, and Sherlock swears the soldier is trying to suck the very life out of him straight through his cock, like some kind of genitalia-crazed vampire. Eyes rolling back in his head, Sherlock decides such an event would be a welcome cause of death, and he digs his fingernails hard into the bronzed skin of John’s shoulders. He shouts when John’s teeth lightly graze over his shaft, followed by a twisted flick of tongue over and around the head as John slides his mouth back and sucks hard at the leaking slit. The technique turns Sherlock to liquid, body trembling with an almost bone-deep sense of pleasure. Sitting back, John wipes the heel of his hand over his mouth, Sherlock seeing stars and going out of his head with bliss. 

“Don’t you disappear on me,” John warns, sliding up Sherlock’s body to mouth at his jaw. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock’s reply is dreamy and slurred, eyes half-open, drunk on the sheer force of the man above him. 

“Good,” John breathes, kneading his fingers against Sherlock’s hip. “Because I’m not even _close_ to done with you.” 

“Oh, god,” Sherlock whimpers. He barely catches John’s smirk before hands are grabbing and lifting him, settling him on hard thighs and a rocking pelvis. John’s hard cock drags against his through the thin fabric of the silkies, and Sherlock bears down in sloppy thrusts, seeking friction and growling when he doesn’t find enough of it.

John’s teeth fasten on his earlobe, words snarling out against Sherlock’s skin, “Going to fuck you so good, _so good_.” His cock shifts, slipping beneath Sherlock and pressing up between the curve of his arse, making them both groan. John kisses him again, hard and demanding, biting at his lips when Sherlock shudders against him, his cock trapped between their bodies and twitching with need. 

“I need, I need—” the words die in his throat. Sherlock shakes his head wildly, reaching out to fist his hands in John’s hair and deepen the kiss. John is nodding, their mouths a mess of tongue and spit and teeth, his hand groping wildly at the bedside table, Sherlock gasping, “Top drawer, in the top drawer.” 

John rustles around, finding and tossing a bottle of lube onto the bed. He reaches for the table again and Sherlock shakes his head, rocking his hips and whimpering. “I’m clean,” he says in a rush of air. “Me, too. I’m clean. I want you to fuck me bare. I want to—to feel you fill me.” 

“Oh, bloody fucking _hell_ ,” John breathes. Suddenly, he grabs Sherlock’s hand and begins squeezing lube onto his fingers. “Make yourself ready for me, you gorgeous thing. Fuck yourself on your fingers while I watch.” 

Nodding, desperate and aching for it, Sherlock reaches behind himself and works a finger inside, pushing past the initial discomfort and grimacing when he breeches himself. The tight muscle spasms, clenching as he groans, head falling back. Once the resistance eases, he twists his finger up to the hilt, toes curling at the sensation. Eyes fluttering, lids heavy, he looks at John. The soldier is watching, propped on one elbow with the other tight around Sherlock’s waist, holding him in place on his lap. His eyes are dark and vibrant blue, fixed on Sherlock’s face, tracking every small expression and reaction as Sherlock works a second finger inside himself. His body vibrates with the stretch, making John moan beneath him. 

“God, you’re _stunning_ ,” he rasps, voice gone rough with need. Panting, pressing back into the crook of his own fingers, Sherlock whines, dropping his cheek to John’s chest. Hands work over his shoulders and back, fingers rubbing slow, easing circles through tense muscles. The movements loosen Sherlock’s body, allowing him to add a third finger, biting hard on his lips around a loud, wanton moan. The tight grip of his hole clenches and releases and the third finger slides in up to the last knuckle with Sherlock crying out.

“Oh, god, yeah. Yeah, keep going. Oh, you’re beautiful,” John is groaning against his neck. Looking over Sherlock’s shoulder to watch him fuck himself on his own fingers, John’s hands clench and dig against Sherlock's lower back. Before he can react, John is lifting him up and tossing him onto his side on the bed. Dazed, Sherlock watches him shimmy out of his shorts, kicking off the shoes he still hasn’t removed. There is likely dirt and grass in his bed now, but Sherlock pushes that aside. There could be an entire dead family in his bed, and he would still beg John to fuck him blind. 

Cock swinging free, jutting pert and eager from under a patch of dark blonde pubic hair, John drops his back against the headboard and hauls Sherlock up, depositing him back in his lap. He lifts him like a ragdoll, muscles rippling in his arms and shoulders, positioning Sherlock’s long legs on either side of his waist. “Spread,” he orders, and Sherlock rushes to obey, gripping his arse cheeks and pulling them apart. John, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist, tilting him up, uses his other hand to grip and guide his twitching cock up against Sherlock’s slick and stretched hole. 

The initial sensation is all pressure: John is not only blessed with length but girth as well. Sherlock’s inner size queen nearly sobs with rapturous joy, John stretching him out until he is gasping and shuddering, body tight and tense around just the head. 

“You can take it,” John gasps, arm quivering as he holds Sherlock in place. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, _please_ tell me you can take it.” 

In response, Sherlock forces himself down and back, taking John in with a hard slide that has them both crying out, John with a harsh grunt and Sherlock in a high-pitched wail of pleasure and pain. He spasms, shaking through a wave of discomfort, breathing through his teeth as he forces himself to relax. Gradually, the uncomfortable feeling subsides. John, sensing the loosening muscles, dips his hips down and then hammers upward, slamming into Sherlock and drawing another cry from his open mouth.

“Yes,” Sherlock stutters, eyes rolling back in his head. “Yes, oh, _yes,_ don’t stop. Harder, go _harder.”_

John obliges. Sitting up, wrapping his arms tight around the man in his lap, he sets a punishing rhythm that has Sherlock panting and writhing. He locks his legs around John’s waist, clamping down with his thighs and making John grunt at the grip. _“Fuck.”_ John’s lips collide with the side of his neck, followed by teeth that bite and scrape at the skin. “Fuck, you are so tight. Oh, fuck, fuck, I don’t ever want to stop.” His tongue laves against the marks left by his teeth, begging, “Just...just let me fuck you forever, please, please.” 

Nodding, rolling his hips down to meet John’s upward thrusts, Sherlock nearly sobs with the feeling of the soldier plowing into his body. “Forever, yes, yes. Oh, _oh,_ _Captain Watson_ , don’t stop.”

The pace turns brutal, the sound of flesh on flesh loud in the room, John’s thighs meeting Sherlock’s backside with harsh slaps. John begins to shiver, arms trembling, and he suddenly slows. Ignoring Sherlock’s forlorn protests, he slips out, lifting Sherlock off his lap and throwing him onto the mattress. Bewildered, Sherlock moves to turn toward him, but John growls and shoves him onto his side, pinning him down. Before he can speak, John is pressing up against his back, coaxing Sherlock’s upper leg to bend at the knee as he guides himself back inside until John’s hips meet the skin of his backside. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing a slow, aching _“Ohhhhhhh,”_ as John moves in smooth, unhurried thrusts. The new position turns everything languid, the angle different but calculated. John’s arm wraps around his middle, fingers stroking sweat-slick skin. Every slow thrust drags the head of his cock over Sherlock’s prostate, the stimulation making his toes curl and his breathing turn shallow. John drops lazy, open-mouthed kisses over the back of his bent neck and shoulders, saliva mixing with perspiration. The kissing and painstakingly measured rhythm of John’s hips turns the wild fucking into something achingly tender. Sherlock's eyes flutter open, only to slide shut again as he drops his forehead to the sheets, whimpering as John’s cock rubs over his prostate again, making him tremble. 

“Oh, fuck me,” John breathes, flicking his tongue over a drop of sweat trailing down the side of Sherlock’s face. “Fuck _me_ , you’re _perfect.”_ Sherlock whines in response, something clenching tight and hard in his stomach at the rapturous words. 

“Oh, Captain.” His head rolls, the sheets soaked through with the slick of their skin. “ _Captain.”_

John’s lips flutter over his cheek, mouthing at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want.”

Biting down hard on his tongue, Sherlock shakes his head and gasps, “Hard. I want it hard. Make me _scream,_ Captain Watson.” Lifting his head, he looks over his shoulder, face flushed and swollen lips parted. “Make me scream your name.” 

“Oh, fuck, yes,” John snarls. “Yes, I want that. I want you to scream _bloody murder_ for me.” His hands bruise Sherlock’s hips with clutching fingers, pushing back to slip out of him. Scrambling onto his hands and knees, Sherlock finds himself yanked abruptly upward, John grabbing him by the thighs and pulling Sherlock’s long legs around him. Eyes wide, Sherlock blindly locks his arms around the soldier’s neck, holding on for dear life as John carries him across the room to drop him against the top of a desk in the corner. 

Dazed, head swimming, Sherlock watches with half-open eyes while John hauls on his hips, sliding Sherlock forward until their bodies are flush together.

“Put your legs on my shoulders,” he commands. Mouth falling open, Sherlock hooks his knees over John’s traps, his head slamming back at the feeling of John pushing into his body. Fully seated with a groan, John snaps his hips back and then forward, forcing Sherlock to lock his fingers around the edge of the desk to keep from being shoved backward. 

“John!” he shouts, the name ripped from his lips by a blinding wave of pleasure. It starts deep in his body and ripples outward, making his aching cock twitch between them, drifting against John’s hard stomach. 

“Do you think you could come from this?” John asks, panting through the words. “Just like this, without me touching you?” His lips curl in a sly smirk, and Sherlock swallows back a sob as John strikes his prostate again. “I bet you can. Let’s try.” Leaning down, he breathes Sherlock’s air and swallows his answering groan with his mouth, nibbling at Sherlock’s bottom lip. “What do you think?”

His knuckles going white around his grip on the edge of the desk, Sherlock nods helplessly, lips trembling, eyes rolling back with every thrust of John’s hips. “Yes,” he cries, body shaking, certain he must be drooling with the sheer bliss of their coupling. “Oh, John, yes, yes. Make me _come.”_

“Mmm, wonderful.” John’s voice is a bone-deep hum in his ear before he is plunging into Sherlock harder, faster, making the desk bang against the wall with every push. The plaster will probably be battered and dented afterward. Sherlock does not give a single damn. Warmth and heat and slick, rolling waves of tension crash over him, drowning out every thought in his head and turning his vision black then white.

John’s teeth sink against his throat, and Sherlock almost screams, the soldier’s name ripped from his throat before he chokes on the force of his climax. It is prodigious, obliterating everything outside of John’s mouth, John’s hips. John’s voice, rising, shouting, “ _S_ _herlock!”_ as the soldier is shuddering and spilling inside him, jerking cock milked by the shivering come-down spasms of Sherlock’s body.

Reality slams back down on them as Sherlock collapses against the desk. Limbs loose and shivering, one of his legs slides off John’s shoulder, the heel of his foot hitting the floor with a _thud_. 

“Oh, god, oh my god, oh my _fucking god_ ,” John curses, dilated pupils turning his eyes black and enormous in the dim light of the bedroom. Sherlock, still melted against the desk, offers a whiny breath in response and nothing more, his brain still buzzing and blessedly offline. _“You_...you brilliant, perfect, fucking cocktease, you _fine_ piece of ass…”

The litany of praises continues as John bends to lick Sherlock’s release off the detective’s lower stomach and chest, humming and moaning at the taste, Sherlock dazed and reluctant to move. With one last pass of his tongue over the dark trail of hair marking the skin between Sherlock’s navel and softened cock, the soldier lifts and carries him toward the bed. This time, there is an achingly gentle edge to the way John lowers him to the sheets, following after to flop onto his back, chest rising and falling with loud, rushing breaths. Half-asleep and blissfully torpid in the aftermath, endorphins and synaptic chemicals washing through his veins, Sherlock closes his eyes. To his shock, John nuzzles into his neck with a satisfied hum. He presses a wet, sloppy kiss to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw and drops a heavy arm across his stomach. Blinking at the ceiling, lids heavy with oxytocin, Sherlock tangles a hand in the rumpled, sweat-dampened sheets. 

“John,” he murmurs, receiving a sleepy, _mmm_ in response. His throat growing tight, Sherlock works his fingers into a fist. “Are you really leaving in four days?”

John’s eyes flick open, eyelashes tickling Sherlock’s neck and making him shiver. He doesn’t reply right away, his breath warm against Sherlock’s skin. Finally, he breathes, “Yeah.”

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. “Where are you staying?”

Placing his hand on Sherlock’s stomach, John traces a slow finger over his prominent ribs. “My sister’s place.” He pauses before adding, “She drives me insane, that’s why I’m always at the park so early.” 

Eyes still closed, Sherlock nods. “Right.”

Silence stretches out between them until John sits up beside him. His fingertips brush Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock opens his eyes to see the soldier looking down at him with a slight frown. It folds the skin between his brows and Sherlock aches to reach out and smooth it flat again. The feeling is sudden and unexpected and utterly ridiculous when applied to the situation at hand: uncharacteristic cuddling in the afterglow of fantastic sex with a complete stranger.

“Sherlock?”

Watching the confusion play across John’s face, the words flood past Sherlock’s lips, unstoppable and insane. “Stay.” He clears his throat, rushing on when John’s eyes go wide. “Stay here. Until you have to leave, stay here... with me.” John stares at him, bright eyes flicking between his, searching Sherlock’s face. Reaching up, Sherlock curls his fingers over the curve of John’s jaw. “Stay.”

Hands twitching against his chest, mouth parting slowly, John’s tongue darts out before his lips curve in a slow, almost shy smile. After having his cock inside Sherlock, making Sherlock scream his name, the expression is ridiculous. Sherlock finds it oddly fitting, John looking down at him and smiling his uncertain little smile. After a moment of consideration, he nods. 

“Okay. Yeah.” Clearing his throat, John nods again. “I’ll stay.”


End file.
